Joywell
by tapioca two-step
Summary: Things that suck about being in space: One, being a garbage collector. Two, getting sent to some weird human settlement just to pick up the Company's trash. Three, finding out that all the horror stories people tell about the Company were actually true. And four, having to team up with a half-naked alien with crab legs on his face if I want to make it out of Joywell alive.
1. Hot Potato

**Joywell**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Hot Potato**

Things that suck about being in space:

One. The food doesn't even qualify as food. We eat dehydrated everything: meat, fruit, vegetables, snacks. Takes about ten minutes to chew each bite of whatever's on the menu for that day, and it's all the most unappetizing shade of brown you've ever seen. Other ships, bigger ships, the ships that the Company always advertises but you never actually see because they're always on executive missions in deep, deep space, have actual galleys and kitchens with vacuum-sealed steaks and tiny little greenouse bays where you can go and pick your own sweet peas right off the vine. Ships like ours get vacuum-sealed packs of water, and even these taste stale.

Two. The atmosphere. Yes, I know that there's no atmosphere in space but I mean the atmosphere of whatever rocket you've strapped yourself into. It's not just the fact that the humidity level on a ship is so horrible that your skin's always splitting and you begin to look like an alligator with exzema by the end of your first tour, it's also the poisonous attitude of the people that you always seem to find in spacefaring positions-you've got your run of the mill haughty first officers, lazy-ass mechanics that let shit break all the time, and the ever-present gropey, lecherous captains that always leer at you in the hallways and send you raunchy voice messages via the onboard comm system. I imagine that the astronauts back in the first days of spaceflight were men and women of honor and bravery: brilliant scientists, pilots, and engineers chosen in part for their ability to work well as a team under pressure. Believe me, the rules have definitely been relaxed since then.

Three. The boredom. Outside of my official capacities (I talk on the radio for a living, whee) I have nothing to do except eat, breathe, and sleep. Sure, I have hobbies. Well, I used to, before my brother got me started at this job. Want to guess what they were? Gardening, hiking, and swimming, so I'm shit out of luck out here. I mean, I could develop some new ones. There's even a workout "center" in the cargo hold (that's actually little more than a large closet) that's home to some free weights and an elliptical machine. I go there only when I'm desperate. Crews on the long haul missions only have to be awake for a few weeks and then the rest of the time they're in dreamland.

But I call the short-range collection shuttle _Boomerang_ my home for six months out of the year, and believe me, I'm awake and answering calls for every day out of those six months. It's not like we're doing anything special. We, and our sister-ships _Gravyboat_ and _Jumpingjack,_ are every bit as small-time as our ships' names imply, and we don't even have dignified cargo. Poised in a quadrant of space that sees everything from personal space yachts to those big Company ships cruising on their way back to Earth, the _Boomerang_ 's job is to take all their trash and drop it at the nearest recycling and incineration satellite facility. Sometimes we'll get a pick-up call when we're already loaded down with one ship's garbage, and then it becomes a race to dump the shit we've already and go intercept the other client before they have a chance to complain. Sometimes ships get impatient and dump it in space and just give us the coordinates to come pick it up. Rinse and repeat for half a year, then go back to Earth and cry about it.

I mean, it's not all bad out here. For one, if I was doing the same thing back on Earth (garbage collecting, if you haven't understood), I'd be earning next to nothing. With both my brother and I working like this, we can send half of our pay back home to Mom and still have a bunch to put away in our mutual education account. When I get out of here, I'm going to go learn how to become a pilot. An airline pilot. With flight attendants and everything, and scenery to look at in case I get bored. Rocco's going to become an engineer and probably ship back out into space again. I never will. Even though I like stars, and even though the best part of this job is when we get to fly by a colorful planet or see some comet go flashing by, it's so lonely out here sometimes that I can't stand it, and then I start to wonder if the paycheck is actually worth it. Usually that's when I go to that gym-closet I was talking about and work myself into sweaty exhaustion. Cue Captain Liner poking his head in and asking me if I'm working my ass so he can admire it more. Um, no. Never.

Sometimes the paycheck is definitely not worth it.

* * *

My clock reads 0113 when the call comes in. It's the first thing I see when my eyes snap open.

 _Really?_ I groggily think. _Captain forgot to put us out of service again?_

Ships that require trash pick-up can ping a request from our computer at any time they want, but ours will only reply if we're awake and responding to calls. At the end of each shift, all the captain has to do is flip a switch and bam, radio silence for eight hours. Guess he was too busy looking at Ethel's backside to put us in bed.

The speaker built into my ceiling beeps, one high-pitched chirp at a time, until I groan and sit up. Being the communications specialist, I'm the one that gets to answer the telephone while the rest of the crew sleeps-and now that we've got the call, policy obligates us to answer it. Gotta follow policy. Rocco always jokes that there's actually eight of us on the ship-Captain Liner, the two of us, Ethel, Dean, Matthew, Lowrance, and Policy. We all hate Policy.

Yawning, scratching myself, I exit my bunk and feel my way up the corridor to the bridge, since the sensor for our automatic lights went out about six weeks ago. Back when it happened, Lowrance said he was going to fix it before the next shift started. See what I mean about lazy-ass mechanics? I mean, I guess he thinks that because the _Boomerang_ is so old and junky, both outside and in, that it doesn't matter if stuff is falling apart. Believe me, it does.

Sure enough, the panel at my station is blinking. I drop into my chair, still rubbing my bleary eyes. It's a written request, as I half expected it would be-as if anyone in their right mind would be up sending messages at this hour of the night-but it's not from anyone out here, it's from Headquarters. Can't think of a reason why they'd be up and sending us messages, either. Squinting in the pale green light of the screen, I open the file.

"From Andrew Silkowski, AQWA Headquarters," I read. We all know Silk. He signs our paychecks. Nice guy. Too nice to bother us like this, unless it's something important. "Intended recipients, crew of AQWA shuttle _Boomerang,_ registration number 34-011-02B. Please enter employee card to decrypt message-oh, are you kidding me?"

The next few minutes are spent stomping through the darkness back to my room, digging in my cabinets for my card, and inadvertently making enough noise to wake the others. Rocco enters the bridge just as I'm punching in my keycode.

"Trouble?" he whispers, leaning against my chair. His voice is hoarse with sleep.

I glance up at him. Even though we're twins, he seemed to get all the beauty of my mother's side of the family-high cheekbones, sculpted nose, a body both lithe and strong. I was somehow only left with smiling hazel eyes like his and hair equally thick and glossy brown. We both keep it cut pretty short, but I twist mine into tiny braided pigtails, partly because that keeps it off my neck and partly because that keeps the others from confusing the two of us. I've got a lithe build, too, but it's more boyish than my brother's, and don't even get me started on my face. Let's just say that he should have been the sister.

"Gotta jump through hoops to open this message from HQ, is all," I tell him. "Sorry for waking you up. I thought we had a call."

Rocco runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the curls out of his eyes. "Huh. Captain forget to flip the switch?"

"You know it." The screen on my console populates with Silk's message to us. Rocco bends over to read it.

"Request divert to-" and here he reads some numbers that make no sense to me because Ethel's the navigator, not me-"for cargo extraction from Weyland-Yutani Vessel _Gravitas_."

We exchange glances. After a pause, he continues to read.

"Official statment from Weyland-Yutani as follows: Company cargo carrier WY410-C _Gravitas_ reported distress and jettisoned its payload. Last radar transmission approximates _Gravitas_ cargo resting location on Terran satellite colony 1-C1313 _Joywell [coordinates provided above]. Gravitas_ cargo of special interest to the Company. Request any ships in that quadrant divert to colony 1-C1313 _Joywell_ and retrieve cargo as specified below."

What follows is a list of VIN numbers and descriptions that I can only guess is identification our intended pickup. I've got no doubt that it's some weird proto-crap that they're always producing for the government. "As soon as we lay our hands on that stuff, we'll be in for it," I complain. "Non-disclosure agreements, weird debriefings, people rifling through our personal belongings, the works."

Rocco shrugs, scrolling down. Silk's added a note at the bottom after his signature. "Sorry for waking you up, guys, but the Company tagged us, and then the boss tagged you, seeing as you're the closest ship to wherever the hell this Joywell place is. Just swing by there, get whatever boxes the Company's looking for, and leave. Weyland-Yutani's got a ship coming to meet you, but I guess they didn't want to just leave this stuff lying around. If you have any questions, have Liner call me tomorrow. Have fun."

After scrolling through the message once more, Rocco closes it and whistles softly. I cut the screen off and we sit in the dark for a while, thankful now that our eyes can rest. "This breaks the monotony, huh?" he finally says.

"Oh, yes. Instead of picking up regular garbage, now we're picking up Company garbage. We should feel honored."

"You're such a whiner." Rocco chews his lower lip. "Wonder what brought down the _Gravitas_. If they were so close by, why didn't they signal for help?"

Typical Rocco-trying to solve other peoples' problems. "Maybe Lowrance was the one who did the maintenance on it."

This brings a smile to his face, and he snorts softly. "All right, you team player, why don't you go make some coffee while I go wake up the ranks? Can't wait to see what Captain Liner has to say about this one."

He holds out a fist. I make one too and tap it against his. "Bump," we tell each other, and then he disappears back through the door to the crew berths. I get up and feel my way to the galley. While I dig around in the drawer for a couple packets of vaccuum-sealed coffee grounds, I allow my self a moment of irritation. This kind of stuff is typical Company behavior. They're so big that they see everything as a tool to be used for their benefit. Doesn't matter what kind of inconvenience they cause, they can just snap their fingers and send people scurrying to do whatever the hell they want.

I try not to think about the stories I've heard. Stories told in hushed whispers in galleys or hallways, stories about the Company sending ships to some sector or another, ships that are never seen again, and then the rumors start, which get weirder and more impossible with every retelling. They're all lies, anyway. Weyland-Yutani's the big bully on the playground, but they're not going around killing people. I don't even know why those stupid rumors popped into my head. Other things that suck about being in space: the stories you hear about creepy stuff happening to crews like us could turn your hair white. Astronauts have the most overactive imaginations I've ever seen. They're worse than children.

"Dear Mom," I mutter as a pour the grounds into the machine, "how are you? Rocco and I are living the dream, cruising around picking up garbage. It's not as bad as it sounds. Plus, we got good news this morning. Weyland-Yutani called and asked us to pick up some special garbage. That's practially a promotion. We're all very excited about it. We have to go find the place where this garbage is, and it's probably days away from our current position, but it's such an honor to go on Company errands that none of us mind at all. Rocco and I should be home in about three months. Love, Rika."

Watching the coffee drip into the carafe, thankful that the coffee smells good, at least, I hear a shout from the crew berths: "The hell they did!"

That would be the Captain.

* * *

The _Boomerang_ thrums around us like a purring cat. Every once in a while one of the engines knocks-the same engine that we've all begged Lowrance to look at for months, now-but the ride has been pretty smooth otherwise. It's weird hearing them run at full power because usually they're only doing that when we're on our way home. Ethel's got us booking to this Joywell place. The sooner we get this job done, the better.

Job. I don't even know if this _is_ a job. I lean forward in my jumpseat, trying to get a peek over the consoles at Captain Liner's face to see if he's still awake. He's in his chair, sipping coffee. Ethel bounces in the seat next to him, her hands on the control column, headphone wires dangling from her pierced ears. At fifty-five, she's the oldest person on the crew, and the only person besides Rocco I would trust with my life. Sometimes we call her Mama.

"Captain," I whisper. I don't know if any of the others are asleep, but with the bridge as silent as it's been for the past four hours, I can bet that Dean, Matt, and Lowrance aren't totally conscious, or else they'd be arguing, or complaining, or both. "We getting paid overtime for this, or anything?"

He doesn't look at me, but I see a muscle in his jaw twitch. "According to Silk, we will be reimbursed by the Company."

"Anything extra?" It doens't hurt to ask, does it? "I mean, we are going out of our way, aren't we?"

This time he does turn his head. His slicked-back black hair gleams in the light of the flickering consoles. His face, though handsome, is severe. "The Company will reimburse us for fuel and supplies we use along the way," he says. "That's about as much as we can expect from them. That, and a shit-ton of paperwork to fill out."

"You want to sign your name on the formal letter of complaint I'm drafting?" Dean's voice quips from behind me. Dean's a smart guy with pale skin and red-orange hair. AQWA hired him to be one of the muscle grunts, but he's a big softie. He writes poetry in his spare time. "I'm gonna give it to their people when they show up to collect whatever radioactive waste they've sent us to grab."

"Don't know why you'd waste your time," Rocco says. "Why don't we just treat this like all the other jobs we get? Everyone's in a pissy mood even though they're just asking us to do what we do every day."

"No, this isn't what we do every day. Abandoning our circuit, trying to find tiny-ass settlements, and picking up Company packages that we're probably not even allowed to _look_ at is not what we do every day, Rocco," Captain Liner bites out. "I'm all about being a helpful citizen, but even I have to draw the line somewhere."

"Heh. You mean, draw the _line-r_ ," Lowrance snorts from his station in the back. Guess he is awake after all. When nobody answers him, he complains, "Why didn't anybody laugh?"

"You know it's because they don't want to bother picking it up," Dean says. "It's not because the cargo's important, they just don't want to waste the fuel landing on some weird rock."

"Couldn't we ask _Gravyboat_ to get it?" Matthew asks. He, along with Dean, will probably be part of the group that actually gets to lay hands on the Company's boxes. I don't blame him for wanting to pass the task off on somebody else. "This is supposed to be their shift, anyway." He cuts a dark glare at the back of Captain Liner's head.

"Look, I'm way too tired to be playing hot potato with this shit," the Captain says. "I already got my ass chewed for asking too many questions as it is. Fuck's sake, Ethel, are we there yet?"

"We've been staring at it this entire time," Ethel says. Her music must be loud because she kind of shouts. "And don't insult me by saying we we're _trying_ to find this settlement. I knew exactly where we were going the whole time."

I crane my neck to see what she's talking about. All I see before us is the huge ice giant that hangs in space like a silver Christmas ornament. I know it's got about twenty moons and somehow it makes this whole landscape look even more lonely. Off to our port side is the nearest star. The Bayer designation for it is Delta Fornax, but we just call it Beacon, or sometimes The Lighthouse, since it's pretty much our "sun-away-from-Sun" out here. If that makes any sense.

"I didn't know there were any human colonies around Beacon," I say. "How come we never pick up any of their stuff?"

"Because there's nobody there any more," Ethel says, as if it's the most obvious fact in the world. "There was this huge stink raised about it about ten years ago. It was all over the news. You didn't hear about it?"

"No." I look at Rocco. "Did you?"

Of course he nods. "Rika doesn't really spend much time watching the news," he tells her, grinning at me.

"Well," Ethel continues, altering our flight path and beginning to flip switches on her console, "some rich religious sect went and bought territory on un-colonized planets and then immediately set up a colony on each one. Said they were closer to Heaven out here than on Earth. If you ask me, they should have done what all the other religious groups do-find a colony that's already established and just hook up with them. Anyway, it was a huge financial failure. The leaders of the sect, who all stayed on Earth, mind you, stopped sending supplies to the colonists after about five years. After that, it all went to hell. Their equipment-communications, food sythensizers, everything-all started failing, and they had nothing to fix them with, and nobody to call who could help them. Nearly everybody from Hopewell died of typhus, of all things, and then the people from Lovewell panicked, packed up, and called for an emergency evacuation without even telling the folks at Joywell. When another shuttle was sent back for the people on Joywell, there wasn't a single person left alive. They televised the mass cremation of them all." She pauses, then says cheerfully, "All the sect leader guys are rotting in jail, by the way, so there _is_ a happy ending to the story."

Typical, cheerful Ethel. Her enthusiasm lessens my worry. Her navigation screen zeroes in on some distant planet and flashes numbers too quickly for me to read. She's probably memorized them by now.

"I'm adding _freaky haunted satellite colony_ to the letter, by the way," Dean says. His fingers clatter over his keyboard. "Last chance to give me your inputs before we overthrow the Weyland-Yutani regime for good with this masterfully composed e-mail!"

"Let me know how that works out for you," Matthew answers dryly.

"Speaking of last chances," Ethel cuts in, "If anyone needs to go to the bathroom, do it now. I am NOT cleaning up the blood from another skull cracked on the ceiling. All right, Lowrance?!"

Lowrance has a bad habit of unbuckling his belt and hurting himself when we're in rough air. The last time we left Earth, he got up to put his Chinese take-out in the fridge and ended up getting thrown into the upper cargo bins. His head split open like a tomato and we had to spend hours scrubbing his blood off our equipment while he was passed out in Medical. He's a moron.

"Lay off it, Ethel," Lowrance gripes from his jumpseat. "I wouldn't do it a _third_ time."

I sigh and lean back in my seat, tightening the straps over my shoulders. Since the place is abandoned, there's no one to call, so my job is to pretty much just wait this whole stupid thing out. Joywell. Sounds like some kind of amusement park. I just hope this ride's not the kind that beats the shit out of you before it's over.

* * *

AN: I wanted to write this because I have a great love of any and all Yautja/F!OC stories. I don't care how many times that particular plotline has been rehashed, I love it in all of its incarnations. Here is my (rather lighthearted) contribution to the ranks.


	2. Some Bullshit

**Joywell**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Some Bullshit**

You might think, with a name like Joywell, our destination would be on a planetoid that's lush and green, all balmy breezes and cool oceans. Or at least some decent scenery—maybe some glaciers or canyons carved by huge rivers or forests with Redwood-tall trees. There are places in the universe like that, where you can sometimes make yourself believe that you're home on Earth. Some colonies even have replica towns-nothing as big as New York or Chicago, but there are places that are modeled after San Francisco's Chinatown or the Las Vegas Strip. I heard that that colony's a dump (just like the real thing) but I wouldn't mind going to the mini-Kyoto colony someday. Their planet has hot springs more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. Well, I've only seen pictures of them, but still.

This place, however, is a desert. Red-tinted sky, pink clouds, and sand. As soon as we break through the pale cloud cover, we see mountains of it heaped in every direction. In the distance off our port are huge gray shapes that might be sand, or mountains, or both, and off our starboard side there's either salt flats or a lake—it's hard to tell with the glare of the sun. It's hot and dry and the tiny sand grains constantly drum against our windshield. I wonder how far we'll have to fly to find Joywell, but Ethel assures us that we're still going at a steady clip and will be until we reached the coordinates given to us by Weyland-Yutani any minute now.

Our arrival into the atmosphere and the blazing heat makes the _Boomerang_ shudder and lurch around us-never my favorite part of a flight. I jiggle my foot nervously and listen to Dean and Matthew talking in hushed tones behind me. Everyone else is calm when it comes to rough air, but it makes my heart jump with every little bounce. The yellow landscape glides by underneath us as Ethel navigates our shaking ship like she's pushing a cart through a grocery store. The 'distance to target' reading on one of her screens ticks down to the single digits. I crane my neck to try and get a glimpse of what she's heading for. The ground humps up in front of us and then drops away.

Ethel whistles. "I was wondering when it'd turn up," she chirps, and banks Boomerang steeply to the left.

Captain Liner says, "It's about damn time," and starts unbuckling the many straps of his seat. Rocco gets up and pats my shoulder as he leans over the window. I peek outside too and am startled by the sudden shock of green that's appeared below us. The desert spit us out over a bare cliff that drops several hundred feet and curves back into itself to form a shallow niche. Stuffed in the shade of this niche, stacked like building blocks, are clay-colored structures, tiny houses probably, that make up a pretty sizable complex. Thread-thin pathways wind from house to house, but there are also ladders and a few tube-looking things-elevators, probably-on some levels. Almost flush against these strange, square buildings is a line of fluffy green trees that springs up from the sandy ground at the base of the cliff. The trees follow an invisible line—probably an underground river- that stretches away and drops over another bluff. It's not all dirt houses and nature down there, though. Clearings in the treetops show several metal-walled warehouses, a couple of guard shacks, a radio antenna, and a landing pad that looks just big enough for the _Boomerang_ to set down on.

"Mud houses, really?" Captain Liner scoffs under his breath. "These religious types. Drives me crazy how they want to live like animals."

"Actually," Dean tells him cheerfully, "I believe the colonists of Joywell based their architectural plans on the Ancestral Puebloan culture, renowned for their complex cliff dwellings and skill with pottery—"

"Mr. Taylor, does it look like I'm interested in the history of this rock?" Captain Liner asks pointedly. "Run an atmosphere composition test and give me something that's actually useful."

Dean sighs, his hands already working over his console.

"I see it."

Rocco's voice is always calm and even, but even so, it sends a thrill through me. Captain Liner's at his side in an instant. He whistles softly. "Would you look at that son of a bitch," he says.

I don't unstrap from my seat yet, but I lean to the side and duck my head so I can see past my brother's shoulder. Ethel helps by tilting Boomerang's nose down. A plume of fading smoke drifts into the blushing sky a few miles away from us. A black, burned path has been dragged through the scraggly trees, pointing its way to our destination like an arrow drawn in the sand. I see mangled wreckage jutting out just above the treeline.

The Captain stiffens. "Wait, that ain't just the payload," he breathes. "That's the whole damn ship."

The rest of us are silent as the _Boomerang_ covers the distance that separates us and the crash site. This close, we can actually smell burned fuel and charred metal coming in from our air conditioning vents. The forest is scorched black beneath us, and so is the ship, but we can still read its call number and the word _Gravitas_ painted in blocky letters on its prow. It will never take to the air again, but someone must have been at the controls when it went down, because this wasn't a catastrophic crash. It looks like it landed hard on its belly and skidded the whole way—a survivable incident if everyone on board was strapped in and bracing for impact. The fire, though, is another story.

"It must have fallen pretty hard," Rocco says softly. "You want to try to raise them on comms?"

The Captain scrubs his hand through his hair.

"Might not be anyone left to talk to." Ethel's voice is quiet.

"This ain't looking like a pick up," Lowrance says, and his voice is sullen. "This is looking like a grade-A shit show."

"Why didn't they tell us it was the whole ship that went down?" I ask Rocco. He shakes his head.

We all spend a few more moments looking at the downed ship below. It's not a huge space liner but it's pretty big. Three or four decks, kind of stubby in the aft section, with a long tapered nose that's been crushed by the impact.

"I'll get the checklist ready," Rocco says. Captain Liner nods.

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Lowrance says, crossing his forearms in the shape of an X. "We're not going down there."

"Gotta call Silk," the Captain muses.

"Yeah, tell him that we're turning our asses around and bugging off," Lowrance says, "cuz this ain't our bag. We ain't rescue."

Captain Liner gives him a cold look. "Cool it, Lowrance. Let's just land first and figure this shit out Maybe go check out the wreck. Who knows. God."

"No place to land here, Captain," Ethel reminds him.

"No need. We'll take the wagon," he answers. "Set down on that landing pad we saw back there, if you can."

Lowrance groans. Typical of him.

Humming, Ethel pulls back on the throttle and turns us around. _Boomerang_ -and my stomach-drops. We're low enough that the trees underneath us shiver in our wake, and we send up a cloud of dust that swirls against the windows and completely blocks the view. The audio from Ethel's console is barely audible over the roaring engines cushioning our descent: "Fifty feet to touchdown. Forty. Thirty..."

"Atmosphere results are back," Dean interrupts. "Apart from the sand, we'll be breathing oxygen, nitrogen, argon, and traces of neon and carbon. In that order."

"Breathable levels?"

"Mostly. I guess that's one of the reasons why they picked this place to set up a colony. They didn't even have to build a full-scale atmosphere processer."

As Ethel aligns the ship over the landing pad, Captain Liner turns to us and folds his arms. "All right, team, I don't think I need to remind any of you, but just in case you weren't listening, _Lowrance_ , we're going to treat this like a normal call. That means PPE on, radio communication in place, and personnel accountability at all times. Rika, I want you to be juicy little ass-in-seat when we're out there. If anything looks fishy, you holler. Got it?"

Ah, there it is. It's been an hour or two since he commented on my butt. I can almost convince myself that this is an actual garbage run until Dean leans over me and whispers, "Let us know if you see any spooky satellite colony ghoooosts." I swat at his face, but he ducks out of reach, laughing, his blue eyes sparkling and mischievous. Captain Liner's lips press together and he cuts a glare at the both of us.

"Dean, Matthew, and Lowrance, I want you ready on the ramp in ten minutes. SCBA on, too. We're going into a burned area and I don't need anyone inhaling any crap on the job. Last thing I want right now is an OSHA complaint."

Amidst grumbles from Lowrance, our three heavy haulers depart. Rocco waits until the door slides closed behind them before asking, "So who's going out there with them?"

Captain Liner looks at my brother critically. "Get that pleading look out of your eyes, Mr. Lord. Excursions aren't your responsibility and you know it."

My brother manages to smile, but I see disappointment in his eyes. "I assumed that you would want to stay with the ship in a circumstance like this. It could be significantly dangerous. If something were to happen—"

"Then you will be the one to follow the protocols for removing Boomerang from the situation and getting the distress signal to AQWA," Captain Liner interrupts. "Look, you're a good guy and I like you. If I had my choice, you'd be the one tramping a mile away to rifle through the Company's shit and I'd stay here with my feet up drinking your sister's coffee. But it's policy."

Gotta follow policy. Thank God for that, too. I can't believe Rocco wanted to leave me here with Captain Liner. Drinking your sister's coffee—could that be some kind of euphemism? You can never tell with the Captain.

With a bang and a shudder, Boomerang settles down on terra firma. Ethel keeps humming as she begins the shutdown procedures and the engines grind their way into silence.

"I'd better get down there," the Captain says, pulling on his jacket and zipping it with a deft motion of his hand. "Rika, we'll hail you when we're about to head out. Make sure the tracking system is working before we go. Rocco, come help me get everyone dressed."

Rocco nods and respectfully steps aside and lets the Captain through, then follows him into the corridor. Now Ethel and I are the only ones left on the bridge. Joywell glows red and yellow outside our windows. The pink clouds crawl across the sky, throwing barely-there shadows on the dry earth, and the treetops dance in the wind. The movement makes me feel a little dizzy, so I look away. Ethel meets my eyes.

"Livin' the dream," she chirps at me as she grabs her headphones. I can hear the beat of her music from here.

I sigh and do the same, then reach forward and flick a switch on my screen. It comes to life with a camera feed from the hold, showing the guys as they don their excursion gear. Matthew's just putting the helmet over his blonde head, and Lowrance sways impatiently back and forth by the ramp. The equipment is pretty bulky, but Captain Liner was smart to have them put it on. They've got built-in cooling units that might make the work a little bit more bearable. Only very, very rarely are we ever required to go planetside for a call, so I'm surprised the equipment still works.

Dean is sitting in the driver's seat of the golf-cart sized vehicle we take on trips like this. The captain calls it 'the wagon' but its official designation is the WHALE. The acronym means something but we don't use it enough for me to remember what it is. Waste-hauling-something-or-other. It's pretty sturdy and can tow close to ten thousand pounds. Lowrance fell off the back of it one time so he's technically not allowed to ride in it any more, but I guess this time is the exception.

"How are you hearing me, Rika?" asks Captain Liner. His mouth must be too close to the mic because I can hear his lips scratching across its surface. He climbs into the wagon.

"Don't shout," I say. "Is yours the only open mic?"

"Yeah, and it'll stay that way until we get there, unless we run into something." A pause, some scuffling. "Everyone ready?"

Dean waddles forward in his suit and pushes the ramp's intercom button. His voice blasts over the bridge. "Hey, if the Company answers my email before I get back, let me know, okay?"

"Get off the line, Dean," the Captain growls. Dean laughs and hops onto the wagon. The ramp opens, momentarily filling my monitor with a flash of white. It takes the camera a moment to readjust to the brightness, and when it finally does, the guys have already left the ship. I see their shadow retreating across the sand, so I stand up and peer out the windows. There they go, the wagon bouncing across the sand, Lowrance holding onto the edges of his seat for dear life.

"Comm check," I say as soon as they disappear into the trees.

"We hear you," is the immediate answer. The wagon's tiny engine whines in the background. "Guess we'll be there in about six minutes—right, Matthew? Yeah, six minutes. Check back in with us then."

I mute my mic so he doesn't hear me yawn. Propping my feet up on my console and folding my hands over my stomach, I begin the task for which I am so handsomely paid thirteen credits an hour: listening.

 _Living the dream_ , I think, and snort softly into my upturned collar.

* * *

It doesn't take long for me to doze off after the guys check in after reaching the Gravitas. After flipping through the camera feed within _Boomerang_ to make sure that Rocco's prepping the Pit like he said he would be, I throw my legs over my desk and lean back in my chair. I guess I doze off for a while, I don't know. When my full bladder wakes me up, Beacon's still in the exact same place in the sky and the temperature on the bridge has risen considerably. The guys still aren't back yet. _Boomerang_ is very, very quiet.

I pull my headset off and glance over at Ethel. Like me, she's got both feet propped up on her console and is flipping through a magazine draped across her thighs. Somehow, she makes our shapeless AQWA-issued uniform look good. I don't know if that's because she's really curvy or if the blue cloth matches really well with her dark skin. Probably a little of both.

I yawn and stretch. "Ethel, do you mind listening for a minute? I have to pee."

She looks over her shoulder at me. "Well, sure, but remember the vacuum pump doesn't work when the engines are off."

Dammit, she's right. The pump's supposed to run off of the batteries but for some reason will only work when we're in flight. We've asked Lowrance to fix that, too. Guess how long ago that was? "So I can't flush?"

"Nope." Then she smiles. "I dare you to pee outside."

"No way."

"I'll give you fifty credits if you do it."

I grimace. "Are you kidding?"

Her smile remains. "Don't be a sissy. Besides, you waste approximately half a gallon of water and one milliwatt of electricity per flush. It costs nothing to bare your backside to the world and give a little shake when you're done. What? I'm serious," she continues when I gape at her. "Rika, jeez, nobody will see or care. Live a little."

"Non-potable water gets recycled on this ship," I say testily.

"Fifty credits," is the sing-song reply.

I waffle for a little longer, but I really have to go. With Ethel laughing at my back, I lace my sneakers tighter and hurry out of the bridge and down the hall. It's a good excuse to go outside, at least. It's been ages since I stretched my legs.

The hold is empty but bears evidence of the guys' presence: open lockers, discarded sneakers, the very faint aroma of the Captain's cologne. It takes me a few tries but I'm finally able to yank the door release lever down. I'm not supposed to be able to open it by myself—it's supposed to be operated by two people at once, like the compressor in the Pit, but the hinges are a little loose after so many years of use. There's a metallic sound as the locks disengage, and then a hiss of air, and the ramp drops open at my feet. The bay fills with light and heat, and I squint as I walk outside.

The air is parched and hot. Dry heat, baking heat, the kind of heat that presses into you like it wants to keep you still and smother you. This isn't the "swimming in hot water" feel of a southern summer, it's the kind of heat that stings your face when you open an oven door. I take one step out into the sun and immediately regret it. Beacon burns down onto me, making me feel like I'm standing too close to a campfire. I leap back into Boomerang's shadow, rubbing my hands together. The skin of the back of my fingers is already pink.

I glance around. I guess here's as good as anywhere, right? Especially since I can't go out into the sunlight without getting roasted. "Dear Mom," I mumble, reaching for my zipper, "today I peed on an abandoned ghost planet. Don't worry, I saved half a gallon of water. I know you didn't raise me to be wasteful."

I squat next to one of the runners, grabbing the strut for balance. When I'm done, I wiggle my butt like Ethel told me to and put my flight suit back in order. That done, I stretch a little bit, kick some dirt over the wet spot I made, and breathe the stifling air one dry gulp at a time. I can't believe I ever complained about how dry the recycled air on Boomerang is. Here, I can feel the moisture in my skin being sucked out through every pore. The hot wind pummels my face with tiny grains of sand.

But, you know, after months of riding on a garbage ship, any breeze is a welcome one.

I look out across the clearing, trying to spot the path that Captain Liner and the others took. The wind has blown away the wagon's tracks, and the trees, though they looked scrubby from the air, are dense as any forest I've seen. They fully surround the landing pad, pale green leaves shushing against each other, filling the air with an eerie sound. For the first time, I am struck with the thought of this place once being filled with people, people who lived in those mud houses, people who built that radio tower, this landing pad. It's very sobering to be the only known humans on a planet, no matter how small it is. It forces you to think about who came before you. I wonder if these settlers were amazed by the heat here, and if they got sunburned as soon as they left their transport ships. I wonder how they made a living in this brutal place—and how they all died in the end.

The wind kicks up. Sand hisses against Boomerang's hull, and a shiver works its way through my muscles despite the heat. Suddenly feeling very exposed, I hurry back inside. The ramp has just closed behind me when Rocco's voice comes on over the intercom.

"Rika, where were you?"

I frown at the camera above my head and click on the receiver. "Using the bathroom. Didn't Ethel—"

"You were supposed to be looking out for them."

Rocco's gentle reprimand sends a thrill of dread through me. I'm almost afraid to ask. Surely, _surely_ nothing happened in the time it took for me to pee? I mean, really? "Is something wrong?" I ask, a little breathless.

"I'll tell you when you get up here _,_ " he answers, which is as good a 'yes' as I've ever heard. With my stomach in knots, I run back to the bridge. The door whooshes open in front of me, carrying with it a wash of warm air and the sounds of a mild argument between Ethel and my brother. Ethel, holding my headset but obviously having been shooed away from my console, is standing with her arms folded while my brother punches in code after code on my computer. His face is pinched.

"If you want to blame anybody, blame me," Ethel's in the middle of saying. "I was at the controls when it happened." Her dark eyes flick towards me and she rolls them. That eases my nerves a little. She wouldn't be so flippant if there was a real problem.

"No. She's the communication officer and she left her post. This is on her."

"It was a _bathroom_ break, Lord—"

"What's the matter?" I interrupt them. Rocco glances over his shoulder at me.

"Captain Liner's radio's acting up," Ethel says before he can answer me. "His audio feed's gone to shit and we can't hear a word he's saying."

"Can he hear us?"

"I think so. He keys up every time we try to raise him. Listen." She holds my headset out to me. I grab it, push Rocco out of the way, and flip the mic switch. " _Boomerang_ to EVA crew."

Sure enough, garbled crackling is Captain Liner's reply. Fine tuning the frequency doesn't make it any better. "We sure we're on the right wavelength?" I ask Rocco. He could've punched in the wrong numbers, who knows.

He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. "1720.32, right there on the screen."

"Maybe he's just got it stuffed into his pocket," Ethel says.

I wouldn't put it past Lowrance to do something like that, but the Captain? "Captain, can you jiggle the wire or something?"

More static. We can't even get Dean or Matthew's audio to come through. I look over at Rocco, who's scowling out the window.

"I thought you checked the equipment for functionality before we left," he says.

"I did," I say. "And it all worked fine. I even did a mic check yesterday. Look at the logs."

Rocco sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Then it might be the antenna," he says.

"What, are you saying something is broken on the _Boomerang_?" Ethel asks with mock surprise. "Surely you jest."

Apparently Rocco's not in the mood to joke. "I'm going up to check," he tells us as he leaves. "Let me know as soon as you get a clear transmission from the Captain."

If it is the antenna, then Lowrance is going to catch hell when he comes back. Broken hallway lights and knocking engines aside, his failure to maintain the communication network could be fatal. I can't believe he was letting _that_ slide, too.

When Rocco's gone, I turn to Ethel. "Sorry you had to catch heat from him," I say. She waves me off, smiling and settling back down in her chair.

"He's just feeling the pressure because he's First Officer," she says, putting her feet up again. "I'm not taking it personally."

I am, though. I hate making mistakes in front of my brother. He's so calm, so smart, so good at what he does, that any little slip-up on my part makes me look just that much worse. Just once, I'd like to be the dependable one.

Ethel sees my crestfallen look. "Rika," she says seriously, in her 'team mom' voice, "don't sweat it, okay? This isn't anything that we haven't handled before. Keep trying to raise the Captain and maybe we'll hear something when Rocco fixes the antenna."

She pats my shoulder and returns to her chair. I prop my cheek on my hand and key my mic again. "Captain, keep your mic open and keep talking," I say around the rock in my throat. I know it's just wounded pride, but I can't help feeling shitty.

More static. It kind of follows the cadence of someone talking, instead of the constant white noise of a busted antenna. That's good, at least. Maybe it's just a frayed wire in his headset. But it was fine yesterday. Maybe _I'm_ the one who needs to go check the logs. Maybe I can sit down with Rocco one of these days and asks how he stays on top of everything.

But if twenty five years of living in his shadow hasn't lent me any of his aptitude or adaptability or general awesomeness. I'm probably out of luck.

"...ack…n…."

Words. Parts of words. I sit up and press my headset tight over my ears. "Say again?"

"…oming...ack…o hol...opy?"

I pop out of my seat and look out the window. There's a faint trail of dust rising from the trees this side of the Gravitas.

"I think they're coming back," I tell Ethel. "Can you tell Rocco"

Ethel reaches over to my board for the Boomerang's crew pager as I try to listen to Captain Liner's voice. He doesn't sound panicked. Maybe a little annoyed. I relax a little. I'll check—and double check—everyone's headsets when we're all safely back on board.

The ten minutes it takes them to get back to us gives Ethel and I time to find the logs and scanner for these kinds of emergency pick-ups. She gives me the scanner and tucks the log tablet under her arm. Rocco meets us in the hallway and we all go down to the cargo bay together. We open the bay doors and watch as the WHALE finally pops through the scrubby brush under the trees and bumps towards us over the sand. Rocco steps closer to me.

"I'm sorry I was harsh with you earlier," he says in my ear, now that the sound of the WHALE's motor drowns out his voice.

Looking up into his sincere expression with those big hazel eyes, I know I can't stay mopey. "It's okay. I know you're just trying to avoid showing favoritism. I shouldn't have left my seat."

He looks relieved, and holds out his fist. "Bump?"

I press my fist against his. It's our special gesture—a catch-all for handshakes, make-up hugs, 'good luck out there' waves. "Bump."

Dean brings the WHALE chugging up the ramp, dragging behind it a sled laden with six black transit cases strapped down with nylon bands. All the guys look mad as hell—especially the Captain. I expect him to lay into me about the radio, but he just swings himself out of his seat and limps over to the lockers. Rocco and I look at each other in alarm.

"Are you hurt, Captain?" Rocco asks.

"Twisted my knee a little," Captain Liner says, harshly unzipping his suit.

Ethel walks over to the sled. "Is this everything?" she asks incredulously, toeing the sled. I have to agree with her tone. We burned probably a hundred and eighty thousand credits' worth of fuel getting here, and these boxes are the only cargo they had? Whatever's in them, it's either really special or _really_ stupid.

Stony silence answers Ethel's question. I shift uncomfortably, the scanner heavy in my hand.

Captain Liner hangs his suit in the locker and slams the door shut. "I'm calling Silk," he says tightly, and limps up the ramp. We all watch him until the door hisses shut behind him.

"What happened?" Rocco asks quietly.

"Captain took a bad fall once we got into _Gravitas_ ," Matthew says. "There were giant holes burned in the floor grating and he found the first one. Nearly fell all the way through."

"Did its crew survive?" Rocco asks.

Matthew shakes his head. "Not that we could find. Which seems odd, given how they landed. The fire pretty much gutted the lower decks but the crew cabins, the bridge, and the science lab were intact." He toes the sled. "That's where we found these things."

"Well, it's a good thing that the precious Company cargo made it safely," Ethel says dryly.

Matthew and Dean exchange a look. "About that…" Dean begins.

As we wait, Matthew opens each of the clamps on the side of the top transit case and throws back the lid. The inside is filled with insulated black packing foam, pressed into which are two large oblong molds.

"The hell were these carrying, anyway?" Lowrance demands. "Dinosaur eggs?"

 _Were_ being the key word, because the case is empty. Seeing this, Ethel begins fanning herself with the tablet.

"That's what's got Liner so fuzzed," Matthew tells Rocco. "Four cases, without a thing in 'em."

"And the other two?" Rocco stoops to look at the cases on the bottom of the pile. "That's an X-029 lock," he muses, tapping his finger on the dial. "We can't open this without the code or a hydraulic prybar."

"Exactly. We know there's stuff in there, but we can't crosscheck the contents with the list they sent us to make sure we've got the right cargo."

"Too bad," Lowrance says sharply. "Let's just strap it down and get the hell out of here. We're gonna get shit from the Company anyway—can we do it somewhere more comfortable?"

Hearing Lowrance whine reminds me of our earlier issue. I whirl on him. "You want to tell me why Captain Liner's radio quit working?" I ask him. "If you tell me you quit maintaining the antenna I'm going to file a formal complaint against you."

"I _did_ maintain it," Lowrance shoots back. "Why you always gotta blame things on me? It was the ship. We couldn't hear nothing once we got on that third level. Couldn't even talk to each other."

I look to Rocco for affirmation. "What do you mean, you couldn't hear anything?" he asks.

"We were getting wicked feedback when we tried to key up," Dean clarifies. "It got worse the higher we went, but only at intervals. We could talk freely for about a minute and then for two minutes it would be nothing but ear-bleeding reverb."

"Distress signal, probably," Rocco says. I wish he wouldn't do that. _I'm_ the communications specialist around here. I could have said it was a distress signal. Probably one that was super amplified, given Dean's description of the feedback problem.

"So don't bite my head off, Rika," Lowrance seethes. I roll my eyes at him.

"The antenna _was_ out of alignment, though," my brother says sharply. I crow internally when Lowrance flushes red. "Kindly remember to attend to your duties or I'll have to second Rika's idea of filing charges against you."

"Fine," our mechanic mutters under his breath. "Let's just get out of here already."

Rocco straightens and brushes the wrinkles out of his jacket. "We can't make any decisions without Mr. Silkowski's direction," he says firmly. "Ethel, Rika, please log what you can and meet us back on the bridge. Hopefully the Captain will have gotten answers to our questions by then."

Matthew, Dean, and Lowrance all strip back into their regular gear and follow my brother out of the cargo bay, talking amongst themselves.

Ethel and I exchange glances. She makes a big show of flipping the tablet on and dictating as she types: "Retrieved cargo—four empty-ass Company transit cases. This is some bullshit."

As she narrates, I lean in and cup my hands around my eyes to peer into the viewport in one of the locked cases. The plastic screen is dirty and smudged. I can see vague shapes inside, but they blend in with the foam backing so I can't really tell what they are. I sigh, then flip open the placard cover on the side of the case.

 _Dear Mom,_ I think as I start scanning, _this is some bullshit._

* * *

 _Boomerang_ 's galley is way too small to attempt to have a "family" meal in, so we all heat up some coffee and packs of beef stew (it looks like dog food but tastes kind of like chili if you close your eyes and concentrate) and converge back on the bridge to listen to Captain Liner's brief on what the hell is going on with this stupid special cargo.

I settle into my seat and start mixing my soup in its packet with a fork, trying not to pay attention to the slurping, smacking sounds Lowrance makes when he eats. Goosebumps crawl up and down my neck. I swear it should be a rule to chew with your mouth closed.

"Sure is hot out there," Rocco says softly, gazing out the window. The sun has finally begun to set. The sand and the sky are the color of crushed rubies. The forest looks like it's on fire. "Everyone, make sure you drink a little more water before bed tonight. We don't need anyone getting dehydrated."

"No kidding," says Matthew. "I'm about as dry as this soup." He shakes his packet dramatically.

"We gonna leave soon?" wheedles Lowrance.

"Not yet," says the Captain. He's got his leg propped up on his console and an ice pack wrapped around his bare ankle. Silk's message flickers on his screen: _Copy your earlier query. As of right now I don't have any clarification for you. Orders were, and I quote, "retrieve and secure for imminent Weyland-Yutani rendezvous". If the boxes' bar codes matched with the list, there's nothing we can do but show the Company that they match. We're not responsible for breaking into those X-029s, so just leave those alone for now. Last time I talked with Company reps they said they'd get back to me with a more specific time, but right now we're looking at a window about 72 hours from now. Make sure all your hatches are battened before then so it can be a quick and easy drop and debrief. We'll route you some paperwork for your workman's comp claim. You think it's a sprain or more of a pulled muscle?_

"Quick and easy, he says," Dean snorts. "We're probably going to be deconned for _days._ "

"Yeah, especially after stepping in some of that shit on the _Gravitas."_

I sit forward. "What'd you guys get into, anyway?"

Rocco shoots me a look that tells me I shouldn't have asked, but Matthew is only too happy to oblige. "For one thing, there were the holes in the floor—"

"Melted," Dean clarifies.

"Melted," Matthew corrects, "and not by fire, so that tells me they were toting some kinda weird caustic shit maybe in the cargo bays. And then there was the goop in the science lab that Lowrance had to stick his face in—"

"I _tripped,_ " Lowrance says, with a full mouth.

"And then there was your run of the mill septic line rupture, your phosphine gas, your highly carcinogenic burning star-freighter fuel fumes…."

"Our air quality scanners were going _nuts."_ Dean says. Then his eyes brighten. "Speaking of scanners—Matt, you noticed those gates on the doors, right?"

Matthew nods. "Bioscanners."

Dean claps his hands like he's found buried treasure. "I told you! Rika, Ethel, those empty transit cases—doesn't it look like they're supposed to be used for something round?"

"Obviously," Ethel says into her cup of coffee.

"Something round like…?" I prompt.

"An egg?" Dean wiggles his eyebrows. When nobody acknowledges his idea he frowns. "Come on, you can see it, can't you? Those cases were stored on a level where you can only go through doorways if you are human! What if they were carrying big old bug eggs?"

"I'm the one who said they were carrying dinosaur eggs," Lowrance says.

"Yeah, and I'm saying they could have been alien eggs."

I stop chewing. This space-meat is stringy as hell, anyway. "Alien?" I ask.

"Think about it!"

"Come on, Dean." Rocco says, exasperated. "You don't actually believe the Company would be stupid enough to haul a load of alien eggs back home. What about quarantines? What about intergalactic freight laws?"

Dean smiles. "On the contrary, I think the Company would be _exactly_ that stupid."

"Uh-huh," Ethel says wryly. "So why aren't they still in the transit cases?"

There's an awkward pause, because that's a really good question. Big freighters—even Company freighters—don't typically use bioscanners unless they're in really hostile territory where there's been marked alien activity. Even if Dean's theory is wrong, the idea of aliens makes my skin crawl. You run into some weird—and sometimes dangerous—shit when you're way out in space.

"Maybe the crew got hungry and ate them for breakfast," Dean mutters. "It was just a joke, anyway."

"Ho-kay, everyone, that's enough for one day." Captain Liner raises his voice above everyone else's. "I don't know about you all, but I'm beat. Let's finish eating and catch a quick nap before we prep _Boomerang_ for dust off."

Everyone mutters their assent. I tip my head back to finish the last bit of the stew.

Alien eggs.

Freaking ridiculous.

* * *

 _Ping._

 _Ping._

 _Ping._

I start awake on my cot and roll to the side with a groan. My computer screen blinks SHIFT START at me in big block letters. Ha, ha, joke's on you, schedule. If this was the start of a normal shift we wouldn't be forty hours away from our beat and not getting reimbursed for our wasted time. I type in my employee code and roll back over to catch a few more z's.

…What the hell is that noise?

I sit up, scrubbing my eyes. There it is again. Thumping.

I step into the corridor outside my bedroom. _Boomerang_ is asleep. I can hear Lowrance snoring from his room down the hall, and the barely-there notes of Clair de Lune from the tape Captain Liner uses to help him sleep. I pad down the hall, pausing whenever I hear the noise, trying to pinpoint where it's coming from.

Then there's a crash, a clatter. My heart leaps into my throat, and then I blow out a frustrated sigh. Someone's messing around in the docking bay. Probably Rocco. He does stuff like this—waits for everyone else to relax and then goes and busts his ass fixing things or updating the logs or completing checklists so we can get on our way that much quicker. I guess I should go help him. Wasn't I just complaining about wanting to be more dependable? Maybe now's the time to have a little heart to heart. I can just imagine what he'll say. _Just be yourself, Rika._ _Everyone has their own strengths and weaknesses._ Well, call me flawed, but I might just get a little bit jealous every time we go home and my mother spends an hour sobbing into Rocco's shoulder while she gives me a little pat on the cheek when she's done. Now, I love my mom, and I'm not faulting her. But she could just as easily hold onto _both_ of us when we get home, and cry onto _both_ of our shoulders.

Maybe when I'm a pilot, I can fly her to Switzerland. She's always wanted to go. We could have a nice little trip, just the two of us, and afterward she might say, _Thank you, I loved this trip, I'm so proud of who you've become._

Eh.

The door slides open before me and I flinch at the warmth and murky light in the cargo bay. The bay doors hang loose about three feet away from where they're supposed to meet the magnetic locks on the floor. Son of a bitch. I thought we'd closed them. I guess Rocco opened them back up.

The transit cases are across the bay in the little storage alcove where Ethel and I'd pushed them, but they've been unstacked and opened. Every one. Even the locked ones. And by opened, I mean, smashed open. A figure is hunched over the most smashed-up one and rifling through it. It's not Rocco—his shoulders are nowhere near that broad—but it might be Matthew. I wonder how he got the case open—or why he bothered. I didn't think we had a hydraulic prybar.

Then the figure moves, grabs something from deeper within the case, and presses it against his face.

My breath hitches. No, it's not Matthew. The light in here is wonky and messing with my eyes, but I know that's not Matthew. I don't know who this person is. This person is tall—very tall, I can tell, even though he's crouching, and the dim light throws shadows on the outline of his lithe musculature. Is he _shirtless?_ Wait, he's not wearing pants either!

And then my eyes lift, and I see it.

Black. Hiding in the corner, sticking to the wall. It almost blends in with the shadows but it's glossy, it has a tail, it's like a horrible spider, hanging there—and its arms are long and its fingers are like talons and it's the size of a huge dog and—

I can't help it. I scream bloody murder.

My screaming gets all the louder when the figure crouched over the open transit case leaps to its feet. Its _clawed_ feet. Its _clawed, reptilian_ feet.

I can't believe I thought it was _human_.

It leaps backwards out of the alcove and lands practically in the middle of the cargo bay. Its back is to me, and it might just be the light in the bay but its skin is colored a rainbow of colors, from dark brown across its broad shoulders and down its spine to olive green down its narrow flanks and arms, but when it moves, I see flashes of iridescent red. Its hair kind of looks like bullwhip kelp, or, weirdly, dreadlocks. I'd laugh at the fact that it's wearing a freaking metal loincloth if it wasn't for the black thing on the wall letting out a rattling hiss.

The naked alien on the floor answers with a knee-weakening roar of its own.

And that's all I stay to watch, because I turn and run.

* * *

I have a terrible habit of overthinking every sentence I put down, so my rule for this story is "don't think too much". I'm writing this for the pure fun of writing, so if something seems weird about the logic, please don't be too put off. That said, if something is really irritating you, please tell me via review or PM. :3 And speaking of reviews...

Bruised Tulips: Thank you very much. :)

Thug-4-Less: Good question! Yes, they're in the same solar system as Joywell. I wouldn't say they were only a day's flight away from it, though. Maybe 50-ish hours, give or take.


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